


Left Bank

by Shampain



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015), Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, F/M, Gingerpilot, M/M, More characters to be added, Paris - Freeform, because it's the Twenties, mentions of real people who are now dead, no actually those are way better than this story, the lost generation, this story has the artistic merit of one of those velvet paintings of dogs playing poker, why am i writing this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-28
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-03-10 18:48:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13507626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shampain/pseuds/Shampain
Summary: It's been years but when Poe thinks of Europe he thinks of war, and he has no wish to see its like again. Yet he finds himself travelling there on the wishes of his mentor and mother figure, Leia, to track down her brash and artistic son.Though he goes looking for Ben Solo, he finds others. There is Rey, a poet who struggles to rise above her unwanted position as Paris' muse; Finn, a lovesick painter whose work ravages the souls of those who view his pieces; and Phasma, whose salon is besieged at all hours by the movers and shakers of the decade.But most enticing of them all is Armitage Hux.





	1. Chapter 1

“This way,” Rey directed in her easy English drawl. Her long, gauzy scarf trailed after her like a banner, her heels click-click-clacking across the pavement in a stern march. Poe fell into step behind her, feeling it would be easier that way instead of hanging off her elbow. After all, she was the one who knew where they were going.

If it weren’t for Rey, things might have been more difficult; but she was there at the docks waiting for him when he disembarked. Apparently, word of his arrival had reached her days earlier, and she had made the proper preparations. He was set up in the cozy Hotel Istria, where Rey herself was lodging. She had secured for him a room across from hers.

After rest and a light supper, however, they were out on the streets, passing noisy, vibrant cafes. Every now and then Rey waved at someone, her fingertips flicking through the air like fireflies. She was the sort of woman that inspired smiles wherever she went, if she was smiling. Frowns, if she was frowning. And so on.

“Here we are,” she announced, cheerfully. The house was well-lit and well-appointed, a golden placard denoting its address, though they moved too swiftly up the steps and into the front door for Poe to read properly.

A handsome, dark-skinned man greeted them, his teeth flashing white despite the cigarette perched in his fingers. “Rey!” he exclaimed. “How the Hell are you?” He was American as well, Poe noted.

“Good, good,” she said, embracing him fondly. “Come, meet Monsieur Dameron. Who knew Leia’s protégé would be so handsome?”

“Oh, no, none of that,” Poe said, embarrassed. “’Poe’ will do just fine.”

“Well then, Poe, I’m Finn,” the man said, sticking his hand out. He had a firm, friendly handshake. “How was the voyage? Get seasick?”

“A bit,” Poe admitted, feeling himself grin. He was always easy around company; the more raucous, the better. It was shy people he never had any idea what to do with. “I’m more of a flier.”

“Pilot, eh?” Finn said. “I was down in the trenches myself. Come on, then, let’s get you a drink.”

Poe had no idea whose house they were in, only that there was a party going on, and he was apparently invited. Someone near the back of the house was playing the piano and singing, gaily, but most of the noise came from laughter and talking and the tinkling of glassware.

Rey went to the side bar and poured all three of them glasses of whisky. Several people were looking at her approvingly, Poe noticed.

“Where are we, exactly?” Poe asked, as they clinked glasses.

“Rey didn’t say?” Finn asked. “ _Rey_!”

She shrugged, smiled, sipped her drink. “Does it really matter?”

“We’re at Adeline Phasma’s,” Finn explained. At Poe’s unresponsive expression, he continued. “The playwright? Essayist?”

“She wrote _En Premier Ordre_ ,” Rey added, tickling at Poe’s memory.

“Yes!” he exclaimed. “About the war?”

Rey nodded. Finn said, “She’s more into collecting art these days. She doesn’t usually hold parties like this, though it’s not unusual to find anyone here at all hours. Writing, working. Painting.”

“But her comrade has just returned from Africa, so here we are,” Rey added, cheerfully. “I guess Phasma was in the mood to set up a good welcome.”

“I don’t want to be rude,” Poe said. “But will my being here – in this house – help me with why I am here – in Paris?”

Rey nodded. “Absolutely,” she said.

Finn raised his eyebrows. “So the rumours are true, then? You’re here on a,” he gave a very delicate, very fake cough into the back of his hand, “Mission?”

“Enlèvement?” Rey teased.

“To observe and report,” Poe said, dryly, but he couldn’t help grinning; he already liked these two, immensely. And here he thought he would have trouble trying to mingle with this set. With prohibition back home in full swing, here the liquor flowed freely and cheaply; and the franc was far more gentle than the dollar. It had attracted quite a few foreigners to invade the city. “Interference only by direct order.”

“Tcha,” Rey said, tapping her glass against his. “I like you, Poe.”

“And she doesn’t like most,” Finn said as an aside, under his breath, while Rey scanned the room’s party guests.

 “So what do you do?” Poe asked. “Are you an outsider, like myself?”

“Absolutey not!” Rey exclaimed, while Finn said, “Yes, of course.”

“Finn here is a remarkable painter,” Rey said, doggedly. “Phasma has already purchased two of his pieces, and you know they say she has a very keen eye for beauty.”

Finn shrugged, modestly. “Rey is a- she is a poet,” he told Poe. “I’m sure you’ve heard that, already.”

“Yes,” Poe said. “I have heard that.”

Rey snorted.

“I’m going to find Ernest,” she said, downing her whisky and setting the glass down on the nearest table. “Je m’excuse, les gars.”

“She’s being published by Luke Skywalker, isn’t she?” Poe asked, trying to keep the confusion out of his voice. “That’s what Leia told me.”

Indeed, before setting out, Leia had given him the best blow-by-blow she could manage, having only the letters from her brother Luke to understand what was happening across the Atlantic. Luke’s publishing house was churning out some of the brightest works of the generation, all told, and Rey was one of his favourite proteges. That was why she was the one asked to meet Poe for his arrival and, hopefully, smooth the way.

“Rey _is_ a poet,” Finn said, emphatically. “A very good one. But no one likes to admit it. Or, no, that’s not right,” he amended. “It’s difficult to explain. There are men here – and some women – who wish she was _not_ a poet.”

Poe raised his eyebrows. “I’m afraid I don’t follow you.”

“They want her as something else,” Finn said. “You see the way people stare at her wherever she goes? How she lights up a room? My God, the first time I met her it was like seeing the sun rise for the first time. I would marry her in a heartbeat. I would do anything for her.”

Poe smiled; he couldn’t help it, seeing the fervent gleam in the other man’s eyes. “Does she know that?”

“In a way,” Finn sighed. “Because you see… she hears that from everyone else. She is one of the most celebrated women in Paris. She has a new lover every week. She always thinks perhaps this man or that woman will be the one to accept her, but in the end it all falls apart, often violently. You see, she is the perfect muse.”

“She inspires people, then.”

“Everyone,” Finn concluded. “She is loved and lusted after, but they only like the _idea_ of her, the inspiration she sets alight in their soul. They don’t want her as anything but that. She is remarkable on her own, and no one wants to accept that.”

Feeling a bitter taste in his mouth, Poe finished off his glass. “Another?” he asked Finn, whose glass was also empty. He nodded.

They began, quite naturally, to make the rounds. Poe could see how the home was normally a sought-after salon, for there was a certain taste in the decorating which lent itself well to hosting any number of people, but also small rooms with desks, and areas tucked out of the way where someone might bow their head and scribble up something beautiful.

He met Adeline Phasma after being at the party for about an hour or so. She was a big woman, much taller than him, generously proportioned, with a square and serious face set off by carefully parted blonde hair. But more than her physical space, her intellectual presence filled the room. Still she seemed pleased to meet him, the furthest thing from an artist.

“Ah, an army man,” she said, shaking his hand. “You know I get tired of these other flimsy creatures, every now and then. They’re so flighty and airy it’s amazing they don’t drift off into the sky. Good to see someone with their feet on the ground.”

“He was a pilot, Phasma,” Finn grinned, and Phasma herself burst into musical laughter.

“Of course he was!” she exclaimed.

“Were you in service, ma’am?” Poe asked, grinning cheekily.

“I drove ambulances,” Phasma chortled, wiping a tear from her eye. “Oh, dear. I’m usually not so light-hearted, but I’m in a good mood. You know what this party is for?”

“A comrade of yours is back from Africa, I hear?” Poe asked, shooting a sidelong glance at Finn, who nodded.

Phasma stepped up between them, clapping one hand to each of their shoulders. “Comrade,” she repeated mildly. “That’s a word for it, I suppose. He’s my former fiancé. An army man like yourself, Dameron. Armitage, darling! Where did you run off to?”

There were many people, but Phasma had the advantage of height, towering over all the others. Her gaze swept through the sitting room, finally focusing towards the far corner. She frowned.

The crowd parted and that was when Poe saw the very reason he had come to Paris: Ben Solo. It had been a couple of years, but Poe would know him anywhere – Leia’s errant son, who had fled east as soon as he had taken hold of funds that were supposed to send him to college. “He gets it from his father,” Leia said, sourly, though Poe privately felt he must get it from his mother, as well, because Leia never took _no_ for an answer, and when she had her mind set on something, she did it.

Ben was much taller than his mother, and stood with a sort of self-conscious stoop; the only thing more overgrown than his frame was his hair, which fell in his face. He was having a very pointed disagreement with another man, as they were clearly arguing, but while Ben was standing with hands in pockets, elbows out, shoulders squared in almost a fighter’s stance, his companion stood there with sharp, straight posture, and gesticulated wildly with a cigarette in his right hand.

“There they go again,” Phasma said, and then shouted, “Attention, gentlemen! Your hostess requires you.”

Ben’s gaze shot in their direction, then narrowed in on Poe. During his confrontation with the other man, his posture had been a comfortable one, as if he had been in his element. Aggressive. Now he was defensive, straightening up, raising his chin, staring Poe right in the eye.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, his tone quite unfriendly, as the three of them neared.

“Watch your mouth, Ben Solo,” Phasma said. “You are all guests under my roof, and I have no qualms with uninviting any of you.”

“He doesn’t belong here,” Ben said, unfazed, and nodded at Poe. “My mother’s sent him to spy on me. Hasn’t she?”

“She’s concerned,” Poe said, shrugging. He had not wanted such an antagonistic meeting, but it wasn’t to be helped. Ben and Poe never got along quite as well as Leia and Han wished. While Poe had first come across the Solos because of his interaction with Han during the war, it was Leia who had taken a shine to him. Over the years since the war ended, the household had gotten more and more tense, and Poe blamed himself. “It’s no one’s fault,” Leia had sighed, one day, after Ben stormed out, claiming she would have preferred Poe for a son instead of him. “Ben is a volatile soul, and he’s always been this way, even before you came along.”

At Poe’s response, Ben made a disbelieving sound. “She’s better off without me.”

As usual, an undercurrent of irritation flowed through Poe. “You should respect your mother,” he said. “She’s an impressive woman.”

“I respect her just fine,” he spat back.

Finn cleared his throat. “How was Africa, Hux?” he asked Ben’s companion, politely.

The other man brushed either imaginary lint or cigarette ash from the shoulder of his jacket. “Hot,” he said, mildly. “Thank you for asking, Finn.”

Ben shot him a venomous look. “That’s it, then?” he asked. “We’re done here?”

“You’re the one who switched dramatics, not me.”

“Va te faire foutre, Hux,” Ben spat, and pushed by Finn as he stalked off. Poe turned his head, watching him go, but Ben did not look back.

Phasma let out a deep sigh. “Un diable, celui,” she said. “Oh well. Poe, this is Armitage Hux. He’s another cold-blooded Englishman, like myself.”

Poe offered his hand, and Armitage shook it. “And you?” he asked.

“A hot-blooded American,” Poe said.

A ghost of a smile came to the man’s lips. “Splendid,” he said. “Come, have a drink with me and tell me how you know our Ben.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know why I'm writing this. I don't plan on this being very long, but you know what? My plans have gone awry before.
> 
> A million thank yous and kisses to [kitseybarbours](http://archiveofourown.org/users/kitseybarbours) aka [this lil tart on Tumblr](http://abernathae.tumblr.com/), who did the French translations for me.  
> A million curses to [Gefionne](http://gefionne.tumblr.com/) for putting this pairing in my head in the first place UGH.


	2. Chapter 2

Phasma had strong-armed Finn into saying hello to some sweet young thing, so Armitage and Poe were alone in refilling their glasses and settling down on a nearby settee.

Poe reached for a table lighter, holding it up so that Armitage could light his cigarette, before taking care of his own. “Africa,” he mused. “What were you doing there?”

“Shooting at things,” Armitage said. At Poe's distasteful expression, he laughed. “I'll admit it, I'm not manly enough to shoot at anything alive. Though it does make a nice cover story for when I go down there. No, there's something freeing about just standing in the middle of the savannah, firing into the distance. The only violent thing I've done since the war is scare a few birds.”

That, at least, set Poe somewhat at ease. He was in fact a fine lover of adventure; the crazier the idea, the better it seemed, and it had served him well in the pilot's seat. But violence, for violence's sake, did not suit him, and it was something he found himself noticing in many of the men around him. Bloodshed proved nothing, Poe decided, beyond showing that anything could bleed.

“Don't people go off to shoot things in Africa when they're fed up with everything here?”

Armitage smiled, crookedly. “You've changed the subject wonderfully back to Ben,” he said. “How do you know him?”

“We're friends, of a sort,” Poe said, shrugging. He rolled the few ice cubes in his glass around, took a sip. “When we aren't arguing.”

“My God, we must be one and the same.”

“His parents have been very good to me,” he continued. “I flew with his father in the war. When I got back to America, he offered me a job in his garage, but Leia – Ben's mother – thought I could do something beyond that. So I've been working with her.”

“And what does she do?”

“Oh, she's an editor for a newspaper,” Poe laughed. “I mean, I could barely spell before the war, and now I pass as somewhat educated. I've been reporting for her for the past year or so. That's what got Ben up in arms: Leia insisted he had to go to college before she got him a spot on her news team.”

“Yes, I remember him telling me as such,” Armitage remarked, flicking cigarette ash into the nearest tray. “So I suppose the question is: why did you get a spot, and he didn't?”

“Ben was too young to fight,” Poe shrugged. “And he's been hanging around home ever since. Leia wanted him to get some life experience, and college was the traditional answer. But he saw it as favouritism.”

“He would,” Armitage mused, staring thoughtfully at the end of his cigarette.

“So?” Poe asked, after a few moments of quiet (hypothetically, as the party was still in full swing). “What were you two arguing about?”

“Oh, the same,” Armitage snorted. “Ben has this idea he's suffered – which, well, quite a few individuals who come to Paris believe this about themselves, myself included – and he doesn't want to put in the work where it's due. He thinks he'd make quite a good playwright, and he's been badgering me to work with him. I keep refusing. I'm happy to help in other ways, but they're never in ways he wants.” He shrugged. “We are destined to butt heads.”

“What is your work?”

“I'm a director,” he said, exhaling smoke. “Theatre. Phasma and I, we met almost fifteen years ago. We thought we'd make a wonderful couple, creating beautiful things together. But then we went to war.”

As tired as the phrase was, Poe still said it, because it was too true not to. “Things change.”

Armitage rubbed at his temple. “They do,” he agreed. “And blast it all, I've barely been home for a day and I’ve gone and let myself get talked into doing an operetta. Boredom, you see. Do you know operettas?”

“I've never been to one, I don't think.”

“How fortunate of you,” he sighed. The longer Poe sat with him, the more he was able to see what a fine-looking man Armitage Hux was. He had a good dash of freckles across his nose, undoubtedly a souvenir from his trip, and his colouring was at times both vivid and lovely, with pale skin and vibrant red hair. But more than that it was how carefully he was turned out, hair parted cleanly, his suit cut sharp and clean around his shoulders. He kept some military precision about him, unlike Poe.

“So you're here to talk Ben into going home?” he asked.

Poe decided not to tell the truth – not entirely, in any case. “I'm just to keep an eye on him, foremost,” he said, stubbing out his cigarette, shaking his head when Armitage wordlessly offered him another one.

“Not for your entire stay here, though, surely.”

“Oh, I'm allowed my time off, when required.”

“Then you must come with us later tonight, across the river,” Armitage said. “There is a new dance hall that opened up last week.”

For a moment, the offer was incredibly tempting. He liked to be in the thick of things and, as lively at the party was, it was still too calm for his liking… and Armitage was interesting company. But good sense meant he had to decline. “Oh, I'm far too tired for a jaunt like that,” Poe said, and at the disappointed look on the other man's face he added, honestly, “but next time, if you'll still have me.”

A smile ghosted across Armitage's lips. “Of course.”

There was a crash – and Poe knew noise, he could tell the difference between an accidental drop of a glass, to one that was hurtled towards the floor or wall with great force. He was already up on his feet by the time they heard shouting. “What the devil,” Armitage muttered, hurriedly crushing his cigarette out as Poe nipped quickly towards the next room.

The first thing he saw was Rey. For a moment he thought her face was covered in tears – indeed her expression was twisted about, skin shining wetly – but then he saw liquid drip from her chin and he realized someone had emptied a glass of champagne in her face. Finn was already pushing himself protectively in front of her, eyes bright with anger, but he seemed too emotional to speak.

The woman he faced down was clearly the aggressor, her entire body rigid and shaking as she shouted angrily in French. Even with Finn in front of her she canted to the side, yelling around him at Rey.

“Touches pas!” she raged. “Tu ne le touches pas, la pute, sale putain-”

Phasma’s voice was like a boom of thunder. “Mademoiselle!” she shouted, erupting from the nearest doorway, full of the strength and conviction that came only with being an offended hostess. “Your husband makes his own choices, as you did by marrying him! Have the self respect not to make a scene about it.”

The woman turned on her heel, snapping an angry retort at Phasma, whose cheeks flushed immediately with annoyance. That was when Poe noticed a thin, pale man grasp firmly at the woman's elbow and begin to gently pull her back into the crowd.

“Get her to control herself, Etienne, or neither of you are welcome in my salon again,” Phasma threatened.

He stooped a quick bow. “Oui, Adeline,” he promised.

Just like that, silence returned. It reigned only for a second before Phasma's instincts took over and she yelled, “How about a dance?” Someone started up the gramophone, and music and soothing chatter once again filled the house.

Rey was nowhere in sight; Poe looked around urgently, then felt a hand on his elbow. He glanced aside and then slightly upwards into Armitage's eyes. “I was hoping to chat more, but I think the evening has other plans,” he said.

Poe sighed. “It does. I should go find Rey.”

“Well, don't be a stranger, Monsier Dameron,” Armitage responded. “Adeline likes you, and she runs an open house here. Come by whenever you like, with or without Rey.”

“Well, first off, just call me Poe; I'm too American for the 'monsieur' bit.” Armitage laughed. “And second, I'm just a lowly reporter.”

Armitage winked. It was incredibly dashing. “So is Hemingway.”

 

Rey was in the kitchen, washing her hands and face. Her cosmetics had run, sticky and black around her eyes. “No, don't, you'll cut yourself,” Finn was cautioning. The broken glass was in the sink, Poe realized. They must have picked it up.

“I hope that horrible woman didn't throw that _at_ you,” Poe said, as he approached.

Rey glanced over her shoulder at him, smiled wanly. “She emptied it in my face first, then chucked it at my feet,” she said. “ _Horrible_ , hah. That doesn't even begin to describe her. She's smothering Etienne.”

“No wonder he keeps running back to you,” Finn sighed, tucking a stray, damp curl behind her ear. “And he blames it on you, mark my words. You're the villain every time he explains himself away to her.”

She patted her face dry with a towel. “Undoubtedly,” she huffed out in a breath. “Oh, dear. Well, that was quite dramatic and now I’m all tense.”

“Would you like another drink?” Poe asked.

“I’ve got enough alcohol on my face for one evening,” she opined. “Would you take a stroll with me, boys?”

She insisted that Poe must see the river, and so they walked, her in the middle with one of them on each arm. “A safe cocoon of gentlemen,” she said. “Because you both are gentlemen, did you know? Finn is more chivalrous than a knight. And Poe-”

“Who you know nothing about-” he pointed out.

“Is vouched by Leia Solo,” she continued, ignoring him. Finn grinned at them both. “And the only scoundrel she associates with is her husband.”

“What about Ben?” Finn teased.

Rey frowned. “Just because we don't get along, doesn't mean he isn't a gentleman,” she said, affecting a prim manner.

“He's like his father, I bet, at the end of the day – not that that is a bad thing, to be a scoundrel,” Finn remarked. He raised his eyebrow at Poe. “Well?”

“What’s your definition of a gentleman?” he replied. “Could be anything. Are we basing this on current behaviour? Historical evidence? Cultural identities?”

“Being a gentleman is something deep within,” Finn insisted.

“We could watch him,” Rey suggested. “Monitor his behaviour. Poe could help; he’s here to keep an eye on him anyway, isn’t that right?”

Poe laughed. “Why don’t you take it a step further?” he asked. “Why don’t you and Finn wager on it?”

Her face brightened, but there was a mischievous glow to it. It was the face one saw on a young girl who had decided the pie left cooling at the kitchen window was far too easy a target to pass up. “Ah! I knew you'd be fun! Finn, I'll bet you ten pounds that Ben Solo, in his heart of hearts, is as courtly as they come.”

Finn snorted. “Easy money,” he said. “But we’ll need a judge.”

“Poe will!” Rey insisted. “You’ll be up for it, won’t you, Poe?”

“Easy, now,” he said. “I don’t know if I’m comfortable with that amount of responsibility. Besides, what if I pick the winner, and the loser never speaks to me again?”

“Maybe a board of judges, then,” Rey said. “We’ll find an amenable group that can put it to a vote. At the end of the summer, maybe.”

“You’re crazy,” Finn laughed.

She smirked and shrugged, jogging them both with her elbows “I know,” she said. “Come, let’s wander back to the hotel. Poe looks exhausted. In a very handsome way,” she added, touching her cheek to his shoulder for a moment.

Back at the Istria, Poe took stock of his room yet again. His single suitcase was unpacked, clothes hung in the closet and freshly brushed. He had packed light not because he was not meant to stay very long, but because there was not much for him to pack in the first place. Possessions were for other people, people who felt solidly at home somewhere – not Poe, who sometimes felt like the wind was chasing him about the countryside. While Leia and Han had welcomed him into their household, he still felt, at his core, disjointed.

Leia had known that, he thought, for before he left she had placed her hand to his cheek and said, “Make sure you come back, now.”

“Of course I will,” he had replied.

Now, standing in his room, he felt that tug of wanderlust deep in his chest. He strolled over to the window and undid the latch, opening it to breath in the late night air and take in the vision of Montparnasse, glowing. He took a deep breath and exhaled, letting the desire to run, to be free, melt into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you to [my darling here](http://abernathae.tumblr.com/) for the French translations. Whenever you see anything French in here that _isn't_ something like BONJOUR or MERCI or ANYTHING LIKE THAT, know that she is the lovely translator. I've chosen not to include any English translations because 1. I'm lazy, and 2. Poe doesn't speak a lick of French anyway. Also I'm a fan of not needing to speak anyone else's language in order to have a good time and so is Poe.  
>  Abernathae also picked Hux's career as a director. I picked his dislike of operettas. 
> 
> So there will be OCs in here to fill in many parts, but also a few references to actual living people. I'll make sure to list them when they appear in case anyone is in doubt. This chapter (and the last one too, actually) references Hemingway, who wrote for the Toronto Star.  
> I'm a big ole nerd for the Lost Generation, and if you are too and would love to see a reference to your favourite icon, do let me know! You've also probably noticed some nods to those people already.


	3. Chapter 3

It had been a long night, and he needed fresh air. He thought this even as he was climbing the steps to his apartment after being out all evening, ignoring the rather offended look of the landlady at his inability to return home in time for breakfast, yet again.

But the air was different in the morning, seated on the sidewalk, drinking rich, dark coffee, than it was at night smoking cigarettes next to a building that might have been a brothel, a dance hall, or somehow, both. Despite his exhaustion, the thought of locking himself up tight in his rooms, even to sleep, made him shudder.

Instead, he quickly showered off the night’s excesses, dressing in fresh underclothes and a suit that did not stink of cheap tobacco, before heading back out.

“Good morning. I see you’re cultivating sleeplessness into a fashion statement?”

The worst thing about Poe Dameron, Ben concluded – the _absolute worst thing_ – was that he was nearly impossible to dislike. The only time you disliked him was when you were on the other side of an argument from him, at which point he seemed to sense the tides turning against him, and he would smile, that infuriating half-cocked grin. If facial expressions were weapons, it was the equivalent of Poe cocking a gun and taking aim. And in seconds it would be over: you liked him again.

He was enjoying a morning cigarette out on the sidewalk, his curly hair pushed back out of his face, though that was the extent of his attempt to groom it; Ben was aware that Poe didn’t even try to bother with getting the fashionable, slicked back helmet head.

“Were you waiting for me to come down, or have you been watching the door to see when I came home?” Ben asked, archly.

Poe laughed. His teeth were annoyingly white. “I’ve spent the last few days strolling by, trying my luck and hoping to catch you, actually,” he said. “Your landlady said you just got home, so I thought I’d wait.”

Ben made an annoyed sound in his throat, which just made Poe smile. “Come on, then,” he said, not about to cancel his morning plans just because this man had crossed the Atlantic to annoy him. “There’s a good place around the corner.”

The fact he had not run into Poe again until now was, truly, something of a surprise. He had expected Poe to barge in the morning after Phasma’s gathering, and demand he come home. The fact that Poe had only been idly keeping an eye out for him – which he knew to be true, because Poe had about as much skill at subterfuge as he did with knitting – suggested that he wasn’t about to be dragged back to America by the ear.

They settled themselves at a table so small their knees were in danger of bumping together, ordered _cafés avec du lait_ and croissants, and considered each other with equal parts weariness, curiosity, and fondness.

“So mother’s worried about me, then,” Ben finally said, with a faint smirk.

Poe shrugged. “Naturally,” he said. “And your father. Myself, if you must know.”

“Oh, Poe,” Ben said, letting his voice drip with sarcasm. “I didn’t think you cared.”

Poe just smiled, infuriatingly kind. Of course, _of course_ he cared.

He still remembered that summer, two years after Poe came to stay with them. The streets of Chicago were hot and blistering during the day, heavy and muffling at night, but the blind pigs were easy to find if you went looking for them. Drunk on Canadian whisky, Ben had kissed a beautiful girl who turned out to belong to a very unfriendly man who controlled the sale of said whisky. It had been a flurry of fists, shouted slurs and broken glass, but ten minutes later he and Poe were pelting down the alleyways, laughing and terrified.

Poe’s nose was bloody, but not broken. Ben was going to have a black eye. They searched high and low for somewhere, anywhere, they might get something cold to bring down the swelling on his face, but finally they had to troop back home, where Leia was waiting. And Poe, to Ben’s eternal surprise, said it was all his fault.

Leia didn’t believe him, of course, he was an awful liar, and she made her disappointment in their childish shenanigans quite clear before going to bed in a huff.

Han had laughed, slapped a steak on his son’s face, handed Poe a washcloth, and merrily rejoined his wife upstairs.

“You _lied_ ,” Ben had said, shocked, in the silence. “To mother.”

Poe had shrugged. “I’ve got your back,” he said, sounding like he had a cold because of his nose, and left to try to clean the dried blood off of his face. It had just been one evening among many raucous ones, that summer, but it had stuck in Ben’s mind, and every now and then he picked at it like a scab he couldn’t bear to tear off.

Now Poe was sitting here in Paris with him, drinking coffee with a deep appreciation, unfairly handsome in the morning sunlight – unfairly handsome at all times, really, but Ben had begun to grow used to it. “Leia just wants to make sure you’re not, you know, dead,” Poe said cheerfully, as Ben tore into a croissant. “Or… I don’t know what her worst nightmare is, actually, though Han made a few suggestions. Probably you acting as houseboy to some depraved dilettante.”

“I didn’t know you knew that word,” Ben said. “Dilettante.”

“Your mother used it before I left,” he grinned. “Describing you. But as long as you aren’t trading sexual favours to a white-haired gentleman for rent, I think she can rest easy. She’d much rather you control your own finances.”

“I’ve been offered money to model nude for some painters, actually.”

“That would be an experience,” Poe said, a tad too enthusiastically, and Ben had to try to decide if the other man was joking or not.

He rolled his eyes and pushed the plate of croissants closer to him. “I’m being frugal with my money, if that’s her concern.”

Poe took one of the croissants, admiring the buttery sheen of it for a moment. “Hm. I think her main concern is just you.”

“So you are going to head home?” He tried to keep the note of hopefulness out of his voice – but in doing so, he worried his disappointment might be revealed. A familiar face, after all, was a familiar face. “Report your findings and get back to the office?”

Poe laughed. “I didn’t court days of seasickness just to spend a week in Paris,” he said. “No, I think I’ll stay awhile; I quite like it here. I mean, besides all the French.”

“Try Madrid, then,” Ben supplied, sulkily.

“Maybe later.”

“You’re goddamn insufferable,” Ben said, but not without a smile.

 

.

 

“Finn! Finn darling! Hallooo, _nous y sommes_!”

Finn’s studio was bright and warm, with a fresh, cool breeze coming in through the open window. It was Poe’s third visit in just as many days, but Rey had been absent ever since the party at Phasma’s, having been taken on a jaunt to London by a man she did not name but, Poe was assured, she would happily curse.

Finn was sitting in front of his easel, though he was not painting: cradling his face with one hand, he was surveying his work with a pensive look, a little fold between his eyebrows. His expression brightened as Rey entered, pushing her way through the unlocked door. In baggy trousers, tall boots, and an unbuttoned waistcoat thrown over a wrinkled shirt, she was boyish and darling all at once.

“Ah, my lovely gamine,” he said, as she came up and deposited two kisses on his cheeks. “What a breath of fresh air you are.”

“I’ve brought Poe,” she announced, rather needlessly, as Poe was already helping himself to the bottle of brandy at the side table.

“How kind of you,” he said, smiling. “I do enjoy his company.”

“It is quite enjoyable,” she agreed.

“Yours, too.” The other man canted his look towards Poe, raising his eyebrows. “I take it you finally managed to bump into Ben?”

“What makes you think that?”

“You’re usually here much earlier,” Finn noted, glancing at the clock, though Poe didn’t think he needed to do that. Finn’s most creative time, he claimed, was morning, regardless of how much he had slept the night before – if at all. He always lost momentum right before noon, at which point he would be arrested by strange thoughts – for minutes, hours even, unless he was interrupted.

Rey stood at his back, leaning forward to prop her chin on his shoulder to stare at the painting that was slowly taking shape. “It’s coming along beautifully,” she said. “Don’t you think so, Poe?”

For a moment he was distracted by the perfection of their poses. Poe was not an artist, but he did have an eye for beauty, and the way Finn sat at his easel, straight-backed and serious, with Rey curving around his back like a comma, was truly lovely. With her cheek close to his, their profiles seemed both matched and framed by the distinct shades of their skin.

Rey glanced aside at Poe for a moment and broke the spell.

“I’ve no idea,” he answered, honestly, because Finn already knew as much. “I’m not much for abstraction. It all looks pretty blurry to me.”

“It will come together,” Rey announced, sounding very sure of herself. “Finn paints dreams; strange cityscapes, endless deserts. They start wispy and unknown, but then they begin to get a real weight, a real vividness of being, like arriving at an undiscovered country. It is breathtaking.”

“Thank you, Rey,” Finn said, taking her hand for a moment.

She straightened up, smiling over at Poe. “Pour two more, won’t you,” she said. “Just one each, I think. Brandy is so heavy and sweet; we need something light and airy, beautiful, for a day like today. Nothing can slow us down.”

“Champagne?” Finn suggested, standing up and stretching.

“Champagne,” Rey agreed, nodding. “Let’s have it when we go for lunch, _oui_? That should happen imminently.”

“You’re always eating,” Finn teased.

“I’m a growing woman,” she proclaimed. “Growing into my own. And if that means I eat twice as much cheese and bread and prosciutto than you, well, that’s just how it is.”

“We have a saying about girls like you in America,” Poe said, swinging an arm around her. “Hollow bones.”

“Like a bird,” Finn said.

“Don’t call me a bird,” she pouted. “Unless it's a hawk. Besides, look at Finn here: working his morning away, he is clearly famished. Come, come, drink up, drink up and then let’s go for a walk. Really it is a beautiful day. And then shall eat, and then we must rest.”

“Rest?”

“We’re going out tonight,” she explained. “Did I not mention?”

“I think you mentioned it just now,” Poe said. Finn laughed.

“There’s a party across the river,” Rey said. “Oh, Poe, you will love it. That’s where the best dance halls are, and some of the best people.  _Venez avec nous_! You must meet Maz. You won’t regret it.”

“I would love to come.”

“Lunch first,” Finn reminded them.

They spilled out onto the street, Rey smiling with her arms hooked through both Poe’s and Finn’s elbows, the same as that first night walking by the river. When Poe had met her earlier, having come from Ben’s, he found her in her rooms at the Istria. She had been washing, she said, the sadness of London from her hair. Indeed, a sullenness had hovered about her, turning the corners of her mouth down. “I feel as if it is raining,” she claimed, frowning. “Raining all the time, though it is so beautiful out.”

He had invited her, then, to accompany him to Finn’s, and he saw now it was the right choice. She was bright again. Actually, when she leaned closer to Finn and they knocked their foreheads together, smirking, it seemed like she was actually glowing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like the best part about Paris in the 20s was all the eating and drinking but I'm biased, because those are two of my favourite things.  
> Also I'm taking my time but you'll see Hux again in the next chapter ;)


	4. Chapter 4

It was going to be a good night. Rey had decided this in her choice of dress, picking one of diaphanous violet, delicate like a butterfly's wing, to drape over the ivory of her slip. How could a night be anything but spectacular, wearing a dress like that?

She informed Poe of this logic as she arrived in his room, where he and Finn had been lounging, discussing some of Phasma's work (Finn had lent him a volume of essays the day before). “Come, we have dinner plans,” she said, after she had given them both a twirl, and they had expressed their friendly admiration. “I might have forgotten to say.”

“Rey, you are a scamp,” Finn declared. “Did it ever occur to you that perhaps I won't always accompany you on your jaunts?”

At that, Rey threw back her head and let out a laugh, one that sounded as if it came deep from her belly. “Idiot,” she said, and looked at Poe. “I used to ask him permission all the time. 'Finn, darling, would you like to-' and after a dozen 'but of course!''s, I decided asking was a waste of time.”

“No,” Finn said, trying to look offended.

It was, Poe decided, truly a mystery that Finn and Rey had not yet embarked on some world-turning romance. It was true that Rey gave love more than she received it; he had understood that much about her after only a day in her company. She asked for love and though it was promised to her it was inevitably smothering, possessive, and angry. Still, she continued to look.

Did that hopefulness make her blind to the reality around her? Poe thought it quite clear: Rey – most of Paris, in fact – likely considered her to be a sun, with all of her lovers stuck in her orbit. In reality, Rey was a moon, forever revolving around her strength and focal point, Finn.

As Poe liked to say, he was not an artist. He was a reporter, and he dealt in facts.

 

Dinner was at a small establishment, which, while modest, was quite crowded and full of cigarette smoke by the time they arrived. Two young women stood from their table and eagerly hailed Rey as the three of them came in.

“Darlings!” she exclaimed, trading cheek kisses with each woman. Finn followed suit, and then Poe as they were introduced. “Poe, meet the Tico sisters: Paige and Rose.”

“You look familiar,” the one that was Rose said. “Were you at Phasma's?”

“Before I spirited him away,” Rey confirmed, before Poe could.

“Sit,” Paige said, with an elegant wave of her hand. “Wine, everyone? Yes?”

The Tico sisters were performers and, not unusually, they found better acceptance – and better pay – in Paris than they would have anywhere in America. Paige was a dancer, but Rose was an actress. “I had to leave California,” Rose explained with a laugh over wine and dinner. “Even though the film business here is practically nonexistent, there's more work on the stage. Pae-Pae followed me here, just so she could keep bossing me around.”

Paige gave a delicate shrug and a smile that suggested her sister was being quite honest.

“You haven't been to Maz's before?” she asked Poe, privately, while the other three were chattering somewhat tipsily over an event three months earlier, something Poe had no knowledge of.

“No,” he said. “I heard it's quite good.”

“It's hard to say which is more impressive,” she replied. “The club, or Maz herself. She's quite something. You'll see.”

 

.

 

It had been almost a week since Armitage had met – and seen – Poe Dameron. Actually, he was worried that the other man might have left Paris, his mission regarding Ben Solo accomplished; but that worry was lifted from his shoulders when Ben sulkily imposed his presence to complain that the other man had come by his home earlier that day.

It was early afternoon and Armitage had been working on the upcoming production of Dédé for hours. He wished he didn't need the money, or he would have happily set the operetta – and Folies Bergère – on fire. Phasma, of course, would always see him through, but he detested, above everything, asking for financial assistance.

Really, while he claimed going to Kenya had been to escape the stress of Paris, his real motive had been a dirty one: he was broke and needed the cash. He had no love for the hunt, but many men did, and his background in warfare – and the fact he wasn't the least bit racist when collaborating with the natives – made him a very expensive guide for many a hunting trip. And truly, Paris was a balm compared to the decadence and insanity of Nyeri. Ironically, if it weren't for the white colonists, the beauty of the country and the geniality of the locals would have made it paradise.

“Hux. _Hux_.”

Armitage blinked, and nodded. “Yes, of course.”

“You weren't listening, were you?”

“I was not.”

Ben blew air aggressively out of his nostrils, crossed his arms over his chest, and sank back into the armchair he had occupied in Armitage's office. “It wasn't important.”

“Please don't guilt me, Ben,” he said, wearily. “I'm not all here. I apologise. What were you saying?”

As much as Ben acted like a child, there were hints at the man beneath – and he was a caring one. Something softened on his broad face. “It wasn't important,” he repeated, steadily this time – admitting that, indeed, his complaints were truly just that: complaints, not problems.

“No, really, tell me.”

Ben shook his head. “I was going to ask a favour, but you're busy.”

“What was the favour?”

“Phasma,” Ben stated. “She's angry with me.”

Armitage barked out a laugh. “Well, stop getting into such sulks when she's around and she won't have reason to be.”

“I can't help it, Hux. Sulking is just what I do.” There, a glint of hallowed humour. “Anyway, I do some of my best work at her salon, but I haven't been going. Afraid she'll stop me at the door.”

Yes, Ben did look a bit gaunter than usual. Too much drinking and smoking, not enough working. Sighing, Armitage began to clear his desk. He had nothing too pressing to do yet, anyway; no one had agreed on who was to play Odette in the operetta, so there was only so much to be accomplished until then.

“I'm dining with her tonight, and then we are going to a party,” he said. “Come with me. Promise to be on your best behaviour.”

 

When Ben had first arrived in Paris, they had become lovers for a short (enthusiastic) while. But they were mismatched and unsuitable, their personalities so opposed that even the passion could not make up for it. And besides that brief blush of infatuation at the very beginning, they were never in love. Fond, though, absolutely, which persisted long after they ended things in the bedroom.

They met on the street outside of Adeline's, Ben stepping out of a taxi, freshly groomed for a good impression. Armitage smoothed his hands over the other man's shoulders, fixed his tie. “You should cut your hair, you barbarian,” he remarked. Ben snorted.

“Come with your grovelling apology?” Adeline asked, only half serious, when Ben presented her with flowers. She immediately had them put in a vase and displayed on the table in the front room, then plied the both of them with aperitifs.

After a hearty meal of coq au vin and a gorgeous bottle from Burgundy, they retired to the sitting room, where they chatted idly about the local gossip. Zelda had once again been found sitting outside the home she shared with Scott, sitting on her luggage, only to have it carried back inside in the morning. “She's drowning beneath him,” Adeline said, more than once. Her high disapproval of Scott was an unpopular opinion, but it was one she shared frequently.

“Ben,” she said, as the conversation died down. “Tell us about your comrade, Poe Dameron.”

Ben frowned. “Whatever for?”

“Because I asked, you snipe.”

Armitage chuckled. Ben scowled at him but, he noticed, not at their hostess. “He was a pilot in the war, and damn good,” he said. “He flew with my father for a bit. Dad offered him a job if he ever found himself in Chicago, so he came. He was meant to work with my dad but my mom saw potential. Took him under her wing. He's more or less been living with us since then. He's got siblings, but they all have their own lives.”

That was not exactly news to Hux, not after his conversation with Poe, but Adeline's eyebrows went up at the revelation. “Really? So you two are close?”

Ben paused, his answer honestly surprising. “Yes. I mean. Unwillingly.”

Armitage couldn't help it; he snickered. Ben made as if to kick him, but they were seated too far away from each other.

“Has he any talent?” Adeline asked. “He's a reporter, yes?”

“He's good at it,” Ben admitted. “I don't know, though.”

“What do you mean?” Armitage asked. “Surely you've read his work. You've a keen eye, Ben, you can tell good from bad.”

“Phasma asked if he had talent, not if he was good or bad,” Ben pointed out. “He's good. And he has talent. Whether it's for writing, though, I can't say.”

“Well, I'm interested in finding out,” Adeline declared. “I've asked Miss Rey to make sure she brings him out tonight. Come, come,” here she glanced at the clock on the wall. “It's about time we went and said hello to Maz.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my darlings! Sorry for the wait, I haven't been able to write anything in ages. To make up for it, you can expect the next chapter tomorrow, since it's written already, just needs an edit.  
> I'm purposefully not committing to a certain year for this fanfic, which gives me the freedom to just pepper in random references for the fun of it, not for any urge to be realistic (tracking who was in Paris and specifically what time will be way too much of a headache, anyway).   
> The snippet about Zelda and her luggage is true, shew.


	5. Chapter 5

Maz was beautiful. There was no other way to describe her.

Her hair was cropped close to her skull, which was an elegant curve that drew the eye down to her neck, and then to the rest of her. Her beauty was timeless but it was her manner that was truly immortal; jovial, brusque, laughing, angry, she moved between emotions without a blink of an eye, and smirked the whole time.

Her dance hall, Castles, was exceedingly popular with the artistic set; and there were many evenings where women danced with women and men danced with men, until the police came and everyone switched partners with grace. She was known, too, for being able to book anyone at any time: the Folies Bèrgere often had Josephine Baker, yes, but at a request from Maz, Jo would cancel the event and attend Castles with glee.

Maz held sway near the back of the club, her dress glittery, her many necklaces swaying to the ragtime beat. “Oh, Armitage,” she exclaimed, enveloping him in her perfumed embrace. “I'm always so pleased to see you.”After insisting they have a drink on her, she disappeared in a flurry.

The good thing about having Ben around was that the younger man was sure to keep an eye out for Poe Dameron, so that Armitage could pretend not to care for a few moments longer. Sure enough, his companion groaned. “There he is,” he said, nudging Armitage in the ribs with a very sharp elbow. “Surrounded by admirers. Have you ever seen anyone so sickeningly handsome?”

Armitage had not. Poe's olive skin glowed in the light, his curly hair glinting and framing his face, and he held himself with a quiet, lazy confidence. He was, truly, as handsome as a man could be. _Surely_ , Armitage thought, _he should be in Hollywood, his face on the silver screen?_

“Ben, ho!” Poe exclaimed, rushing forward. He had clearly been drinking, for his cheeks were rosy, and he embraced Ben quite firmly.

“Ugh, Poe,” Ben complained, wrestling himself away but not, Armitage noticed, without a grin. “Why do you have to be so familiar?”

“Because I can be,” Poe laughed, flashing his teeth in a smile. “Armitage, hello.”

“Hello,” he replied. “Good to see you haven't left Paris, yet.”

“And miss out on this?” Poe asked, sweeping his arm to the side, as if to encompass not just the club but the city, the entirety of Paris. “Have you met the Tico sisters? I met them today. They're just over there.”

“Oh, is Paige here?” Armitage asked.

And that's how they ended up at a table with the Ticos, and Rey and Finn. Adeline had vanished, no doubt rubbing elbows with whoever Maz deemed worthy. Rey looked spectacular, glowing next to Finn. While she had never been to his taste, he did appreciate her presence at any gathering.

She began to make the rounds, demanding a dance from everyone at the table. She claimed Ben first, dragging him out onto the dance floor despite his protests. They were constantly at odds thanks to Luke Skywalker and his unreliable favour, so watching them dance had a charming, hilarious effect on the rest of the group. Rose was quick to claim the next dance.

Ben deposited himself back in his chair and began to drink Armitage's whisky sour without a word of thanks. “You know,” Armitage said, waving a server down to request another round. “If you chose to simply get along with Rey, you would be wonderful friends.”

Ben rolled his eyes. “I like Rey just fine,” he said. “But she thinks the sun shines out of Uncle Luke's ass. If she ever gets over it, I'll be happy to end the feud.”

“Feud? Stop being so dramatic.”

“Says the _director_.”

“Hmph.”

Rose and Rey returned, and then it was Poe sweeping off with the young brunette. He was not an elegant dancer, but he was energetic and fun. He and Rey laughed together, swinging each other about, doing some ridiculous, unromantic bastardization of the tango in between tripping over too-complicated footwork. It was lovely to watch.

A hot puff of breath by his ear startled him, and he quickly turned his head to see Ben leaning in close, a smirk on his face.

“What?” he asked, already irritated by his expression.

“Hux,” Ben said. “You are so obvious.”

“You're being ridi-”

“Armitage!” Rey charged up, shoving a laughing, red-faced Poe into the chair next to Paige. “Your turn! You dance like a dream!”

 

The evening began to sweep by. Armitage enjoyed a good night out, in a club with a band that was just as lively as its crowd, and any excuse to get on the dance floor was a good one.

Out of all his usual dance partners, though, it was Paige who was his favourite. She was a professional, so graceful and heart-stopping that sometimes just having her on his arm (or, really, him on her arm) was enough to guarantee them an evening of admirers, plying them steadily with drink and praise. It was flattering that she enjoyed dancing with him as much as she did.

So after Rey, Armitage took Paige onto the floor, where they danced until the band took a break. She and Rose were whisked off by a group of admirers, and so, craving fresh air, Armitage retreated to the street.

And who should be there, smoking cigarettes, but Poe and Ben. They were talking animatedly, not angry but not smiling, either. “I didn't mean to interrupt,” Armitage said, for they noticed him before he could step off in another direction, and the conversation came to an abrupt end.

“You're not,” Poe said.

“You are,” Ben corrected, “but it's fine. Just family things.” He flicked his cigarette to the pavement, crushed it under his shoe. He sighed, deeply, and for a moment Armitage swore he was going to say something further about it, but instead he announced he was going back inside.

“Cigarette?” Poe held out his rather battered case. Armitage gladly took one.

“Thank you.”

“Your dancing is fantastic,” Poe said. “Were you trained?”

“Only in the traditional dances,” Armitage admitted. “That was part of being a nobleman's son. The rest I learned on my own.”

“My God,” Poe exclaimed. “Are you a Lord Hux or something stuffy like that?”

“Not since I was disinherited,” he replied, laughing. He had long ago given up on that life – the lordship, the estate, everything. Even the thought of what he lost no longer gave him the same pangs that it used to.

Poe's thick eyebrows raised. His face was so beautifully expressive, his eyes large and honest, his mouth saying a thousand things even when he wasn't speaking. There was a spark there that could not be ignored. “Well,” he said. “Do you mind my asking what you were disinherited over?”

As quiet as he was about it in England, where he could be dragged off to jail, here in Paris – right there on the street in Montmartre, outside Castles – Armitage had no problem speaking about it. “He discovered my inclinations towards men,” he said.

He waited for the other man's response. It did not take very long; only a few seconds, while Poe was enjoying a long drag from his cigarette. “That would do it,” he said, exhaling smoke.

“You're not averse to such things, then?”

Poe actually barked out a laugh. “I've spent the last few years watching Ben pursue anyone with a pulse,” he pointed out. “Can't say I've any experience in that regard, but I'm no stranger to it. It's not illegal here, then?”

Armitage quickly tamped down the little thrill he felt the moment Poe admitted to inexperience. “Oh, there are still laws about our so-called indecency,” he said, idly. “The longer you stay here in Paris, hanging around the people you are, the more likely you'll experience a raid. But that's about as threatening as it gets.”

Poe shook his head, as if he simply couldn't understand the world – a sentiment Armitage shared. “Shall we go back inside?” he asked.

Back at their table, Ben and Rose were arguing good-naturedly about some film or other they'd both recently seen. When Armitage sat down, Poe took the seat right beside him. “So tell me,” he said. “Did you get that fancy English upbringing in all the books? Those boarding schools with the ridiculous straw hats?”

“The boaters, you mean?” Armitage grinned.

“Terrible.”

“What about you? What are schools like in America?”

Poe shrugged. “Couldn't say, really,” he said. “Dropped out young. Mama was always ill and I had three younger sisters, so I had to work.”

“Your father?”

“Skipped town.”

“I'm sorry to hear that.”

Poe flashed his teeth in a grin. “Don't be,” he said. “Despite everything we were better off without him. Anyway, since you're gonna ask – mama died when I was twenty, but my sisters are all happily married to good men. They'd have to be, to deserve women like them.”

“You're not the marrying type?”

“Haven't met the type to marry just yet,” he responded smartly. “I got time, at least 'til I'm dead. Anyway, Leia keeps me good and busy.”

Paige appeared, requesting Armitage accompany her onto the dance floor yet again. At that, Poe seized Rose's hand to join in. Ben remained behind at the table, nursing his drink, but he did not seem to be upset to be left out.

They joined Rey and Finn, who were already whirling around in each others arms. Armitage did his best to focus on Paige, but he found himself distracted, gaze wandering over to Poe, who laughingly dipped Rose so low her bobbed hair nearly touched the floor.

 

They said goodbye to Maz at midnight, and, as a group, trooped out onto the streets. Phasma had completely disappeared by that point, which was not unusual for her. Rey suggested they all recuperate at one of her favourite cafes, but Armitage felt the all too familiar tug of responsibility. He would need to be at the theatre in the morning.

“Next time,” he promised, when Rey exclaimed her dismay.

“I'll hold you to that,” Poe said. He had been drinking steadily all night, and there was a light flush to his face, especially around the tops of his cheeks. That, combined with the tousled state of his hair, made it all too easy for Armitage to envision such a state of disarray for other reasons.

“If you want to see him, all you have to do is swing by Phasma's at mealtimes,” Ben interrupted, frankly. “She likes to feed him. Thinks he's too skinny.”

“Thank you for that, Ben,” Armitage said, looking skyward for help from Above.

“Are you joining us?” Finn asked.

“No, I'm going to go write,” Ben said. “Hux, mind sharing the taxi?”

In the darkness of the cab, Ben's smugness was stifling. Hux resisted the urge to kick him, because Ben would kick him back, and it would hurt. “What?” he asked, wearily, gazing out the window.

“You're going to try to seduce him, aren't you?”

“I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about.”

They stopped at Phasma's, where, Ben claimed, he had a poem to compose. He stepped down onto the sidewalk, but paused, there, before closing the door. He leaned in and gave Armitage a rather serious look.

“Just be careful,” he said.

“Ben-”

But his friend simply shut the door.


End file.
